Longing Quotes - Page 4

Being in love with your best friend is problematic.

One of the open secrets of life on earth is that the answer to life’s burning question has been inscribed in one’s soul all along. The soul is a kind of ancient vessel that holds the exact knowledge we seek and need to find our way in life. Each life is a pilgrimage intended to arrive at the center of the pilgrim’s soul. From that vantage point, the issue is not whether we managed to choose the right god or the only way to live righteously; such notions fail to recognize the inborn intimacy each soul already has with the divine.

The days passed in a dream. I pictured our reunion again and again, played it out in my mind over and over until I’d almost worn a groove in my thoughts, so deep that it seemed the only thing I could think of was our reunion. Anticipation is a gift. Perhaps there is none greater. Anticipation is born of hope. Indeed it is hope’s finest expression. In hope’s loss, however, is the greatest despair.

When I opened the box, I had to remove myself from whose handwriting it was that I was reading and whose story I was hearing. I had to, or I never would have made it past the first letter. If I stopped to think about my Grandpa writing to my Grandma, knowing how much he loved her and how many years he spent without her after her death, I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it through just one letter without an onslaught of tears. And it was Grandpa, a voice I knew so well. One that I miss terribly.

For the first time in my life, I felt the pain of missing people I had not yet left.

To love is to think.And I almost forget to feel only from thinking about her.I don’t know what I want at all, even from her, and I don’t think about anything but her.I have a great animated distraction.When I want to meet her,I almost feel like not meeting her,So I don’t have to leave her afterwards.And I prefer thinking about her, because it’s like I’m afraid of her.I don’t know what I want at all, and I don’t want to know what I want. All I want to do is think about her.I’m asking nothing of nobody, not even her, except to think.

I raised you so high that every other man on earth is now doomed to live in your shadow.

You see how it is godlike to love the being of someone. Your existence is a delight to us. I hope you never have to long for a child as I did, but oh, what a splendid thing it has been that you came finally, and what a blessing to enjoy you now for almost seven years.

When i remember your namei know you are my hope.for what ?not for love...'cause i know you can't love me.but i know you are my hope for... Life.Just remembering your smile...i know you are my worldyou shaping my world that became like this...you are my storyNot to be told, But to remember...i love youand... I miss you nowi miss my worldi miss your face, your smile and your voiceI miss you more than anyone that I've ever met-For Enno Indi WP-

had almost forgotten the wet brush of your kisses… soft as April snowflakes

Home is where they want you to stay longer

Men dream more about coming home than about leaving.

I hung a picture of him above my bed and learned by hand the internal workings of the female combustion engine.

We were both smiling, in that bittersweet way one does when imagining something the heart longs for and the head would dread.

My heart is sair-I dare na tell,My heart is sair for Somebody.

Is there anything better than to be longing for something, when you know it is within reach?

You want help? Ask for help. You want love? Ask for love. If you want anything from the universe, anything from yourself, you must first ask.

The sensation I had experienced vanished like smoke from a snuffed candlem, leaving behind wisps of nameless longing.

The man that is meant to love you will have a million questions about you, but none will ever ask your value.

Time no longer mattered. He knew he would have plenty of it at his disposal. The sight of the star filled him with indescribable longing.

I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses...the smell of your hair, the taste of your skin, the touch of your breath on my face. I want to see you in the final hour of my life...to lie in your arms as I take my last breath.

Sometimes, language is the sound of longing

Some people are like swings...They give us an exciting thing to do for a while..Thereafter leave us alone, dizzy and not very far ahead in life...

Eve was happy for her bestie. She just wished she had a guy who would look at her the way Seth looked at her friend, eyes all starry.No, that wasn't it. Or it wasn't completely it. Eve knew there were guys at school who liked her and would give her the Seth-look if she gave them the opportunity. But she didn't want the look from any of those guys. She wanted the look she could give the look back to. She wanted to find a guy she could all-out love who would all-out love her back.

The ghosts that exert the most power in people’s lives-at least, the people I know–tend to be of their own making, and consist of equal parts regret and old fears and just plain missing somebody.

Sometimes I wish I could describe how wonderful I feel in those few seconds from the time he spreads his arms above his head, as if trying to grab hold of something, to the instant he vanishes into the water. But I can never find the right words. Perhaps it’s because he’s falling through time, to a place where words can never reach.

There is a song in your heart, only you can hear it. In silence, that is the song of longing and love.

Then he lets go and walks down the path, without another word. He doesn't look back. But I watch him go. I watch him all the way home.

The whole world can't lick us but we can lick ourselves by longing too hard for things we haven't got any more - and by remembering too much.

I inherited this longing. I was addicted to it. And so I was at home with those who wanted and never had enough. I was at home in the places that could never be. The places found only in dreams.

... and you start telling a story about accidentally stealing shoes from an outlet and we've been on the steps for almost twenty minutes and you're so nervous and excited that you keep talking about shoes as if you have to keep talking about shoes or you might jump me right here, on the steps. I chose this spot because my whole fucking life I've walked by these steps and seen couples that make me feel alone, rejected. And now there are loners passing by you and me, jealous, and you're still talking and fuck, it's hard to listen when I can smell your body wash.

I long to embrace, to include in my own short life, all that is accessible to man. I long to speak, to read, to wield a hammer in a great factory, to keep watch at sea, to plow. I want to be walking along the Nevsky Prospect, or in the open fields, or on the ocean — wherever my imagination ranges.

I wish I had heard him more clearly: an oblique confession is always a plea.

Gavin, I can’t talk to you here. People will call me crazy."tMy imaginary friend smirked. "But you’re already talking to me."t"Well, I have to stop."tHis smirk grew cocky. "I doubt you can resist."tAnd he was right. There was nothing I wanted more than to give my full attention to an imagined shadow and ignore those who ignored me in the real world. I wanted to talk out loud to Gavin―to play and laugh boisterously with him. In a dream I could justify such behavior, but to succumb to hallucinations while wide awake would only prove me insane.

Nothing is more excruciating than hopelessly longing for lost love.

To be human, that's what most of us long for. It is the human which has become myth to us.

..and when he let her go, it was as if she had been filled and didn't realize it until he pulled away and the absence rushed back in.

She inhabited a world from which I was excluded, and she had left me in an immense empty space.

Spirituality is, ultimately, about what we do with that desire. What we do with our longings, both in terms of handling the pain and the hope they bring us, that is our spirituality.

There are things that will not have themselves buried and put out of sight, as though they had never been.

Took long enough,” she called out, not wanting to admit how the sight of him made her throat hitch, how the man was so gorgeous she lost her mind. “I thought you drowned in the mirror from staring into your reflection too long.

Believing in nothing except the truth of Montgomery, who for all his faults was as steady as the sea, as honest as the sun. My eyes watered with unexpected tears, and I kissed him harder, desperately. It wasn't a happy ending.

I know she is coming I know she will look And that is the longing And this is the book.

However much you have been wanting and hoping and dreaming of meeting the person of your dreams, it is only when you meet them that you will start missing them. It seems that the presence of an object is required to make its absence felt (or to make the absence of something felt). A kind of longing may have preceded their arrival, but you have to meet in order to feel the full force of your frustration in their absence.

You see the first thing we love is a scene. For love at first sight requires the very sign of its suddenness; and of all things, it is the scene which seems to be seen best for the first time: a curtain parts and what had not yet ever been seen is devoured by the eyes: the scene consecrates the object I am going to love. The context is the constellation of elements, harmoniously arranged that encompass the experience of the amorous subject...Love at first sight is always spoken in the past tense. The scene is perfectly adapted to this temporal phenomenon: distinct, abrupt, framed, it is already a memory (the nature of a photograph is not to represent but to memorialize)... this scene has all the magnificence of an accident: I cannot get over having had this good fortune: to meet what matches my desire. interval, something has been successful: I have been fulfilled (all my desires abolished by the plenitude of their satisfaction).

The sensation Ihad experienced vanished like smoke from a snuffed candle, leaving behind wisps of namelesslonging.

this heart yearns...for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms...unknown adventures.

Do youOr do you not knowYou're with me more deadThan you were livingReach me some timeIn a dream may beLet me remember how sweetYour presence can beReach out your handsAnd call to meFor soon it will beAnother anniv

When Jean and his mother left Etreuilles, Monsieur Sureau had gathered for them great boxfuls of hawthorn and of snowballs which Madame Santeuil had not the courage to refuse. But, as soon as Jean's uncle had gone home, she threw them away, saying that they already had more than enough in the way of luggage. And then Jean cried because he had been separated from the darling creatures which he would have liked to take with him to Paris, and because of his mother's naughtiness.

Sadly as some old mediaeval knightGazed at the arms he could no longer wield,The sword two-handed and the shining shieldSuspended in the hall, and full in sight,While secret longings for the lost delightOf tourney or adventure in the fieldCame over him, and tears but half concealedTrembled and fell upon his beard of white,So I behold these books upon their shelf,My ornaments and arms of other days;Not wholly useless, though no longer used,For they remind me of my other self,Younger and stronger, and the pleasant waysIn which I walked, now clouded and confused.

But no one can predict of a certainty what will happen. And none of it will change how I intend to spend the rest of my life. I will live it on my terms. And you... you can have all of me or nothing. I won't be an invalid any longer. Not even if it means losing you.

Oh, if only I could hurt with such misery once again, to feel the powers of love here inside my heart, the joys of heaven and the pains of hell!

When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold, Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold;When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West, Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!

i swallowed the syllables of your nameand i was full.

Surely some revelation is at hand.

To feel such a longing for his own life, even as he’s living it—he wonders what that means.

She was lost in her longing to understand.

His heart hurt with the wanting of it, the hurt no less painful for being difficult to explain.

Or deep down, maybe there was more. Maybe I wanted someone to figure out who wrote the note and secretly come to my rescue.Maybe. I don’t know. But I was careful never to give myself away.

Will it be here that we shall find a place which will not elude us, or which if it remains does not exert on us a culpable attraction? Or must we, leaning over the deck and watching the shores glide by, move forever onward?